


The Secrets of the Service

by Arithanas



Series: Love Demands Sacrifices [6]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: F/M, Gen, Letters, domestic gossip, mail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-09
Updated: 2012-04-09
Packaged: 2018-04-02 06:24:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4049542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1636, Soissons. Mail is a great invention, it approach people and speed notices, sometimes more quickly than they should be spread. Mousqueton POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secrets of the Service

_Confidentiality is a virtue of the loyal,_   
_as loyalty is the virtue of faithfulness._  
_~Edwin Louis Cole_

Mousqueton, although he still did not like his name, was happy in his position. The mistress was a tough boss, but she had her own maid and the house had a lot of personnel and he was the immediate go-between between the service and the masters. This position had a lot of advantages, for instance, he had the keys of the pantry and never lacked a snack whenever he wanted.

In this way of living, it was his responsibility to see the mail safely delivered on the post and he could do some skullduggery to send his own letters. Not that he wrote a lot, he occasionally corresponded to Grimaud, he had been his mentor in Paris and now and then they share news and some secrets of the trade. Last time, the silent Grimaud chided him for stealing _sous_ to write him, that was his character and Mousqueton enjoyed his reconvention, knowing very well that those two words were a full rant on his part.

Mousqueton was setting the table, smiling and thinking about some oddities in his correspondence. Grimaud was a regular correspondent and he always wrote as he speaks: not much and bluntly. The last three or four missives were even more laconic than he usually was, and his ideas were not as clear, for once why did his master need two bed-chambers? And why in heavens Grimaud complained of re-fitting shirts? His master had reached his full height and he was not to grow anymore. The good Norman chuckled at the idea of M. Athos putting on some weight; it wouldn't be too far-fetched if he kept drinking his share and more. Mousqueton was certain something was happening in Bragelonne, but that secret would never come by Grimaud's hand, that man was loyalty embodied.

The barking of dogs announced the arrival of the head of the house and Mousqueton hurried his labor, the mistress wouldn't be happy if they have to wait to serve the master. He put the knife and the spoons and made sure the dishes show no speckle before he ran to the door. He arrived just in time to see his master spun around his mistress and kiss her like she was the prettiest wench in the tavern, of course she was not, years hadn't been too kind with her and she showed every one of them; Mousqueton, however, had to concede her that she did everything in her hand to give the best of the presences and, sometimes, she managed to be a pretty sight.

"My faith! I'm hungry like a wolf. What did my little wife cook for me?" Mousqueton heard his master ask. His big hand was petting her hair. "A scrawny fowl?"

"Just a dish of haricot beans, my big, mighty husband," she replied, with a smile.

"With a few bones of mutton?"

Marriage always had been a secret territory, just a thing for the two of them. Mousqueton never understood that, but it was not the first time he witnessed when they exchange those phrases. Regardless of Mousqueton's lack of understanding, it was a pretty thing to see and that made them happy. Could Grimaud had been witnessing something similar in Bragelonne? That could explain his reticence although it would be a real surprise if M. Athos decided to give women another chance.

"Just the beans," the mistress said and sought Mousqueton with her eyes as if she was asking if everything was ready.

"The table is set!" Mousqueton announced, following his mistress clue. The last seven years he had been especially adept to follow her orders.

At the sound of his voice, the kitchen staff poured from the kitchens with serving plates filled with fish and a couple of roasted pheasant that M. Porthos had hunted early in the morning. This superb recipe was in the good company of a chicken soup and baked potatoes. M. Porthos was a gentleman and drew the lady's chair before taking his place and digging in his soup dish with gusto. They always eat in silence, that was tradition, and Mousqueton uncorked a bottle for the well stocked cave and poured the tawny liquid on metal cups with a smile.

Mousqueton was ready to oversee the serving of the desserts when one of the boys, who work as kitchen assistance, made some calling signs behind their master's backs. Something had happened and required his presence. With a little reverence, Mousqueton ran to the kitchen.

"What is it?" Mousqueton asked in a hushed tone, amidst the fumes and aromas of the kitchen. His hand grabbed some small bread.

"There is a man at the gates, _maitre_ ," the boy answered, mimicking his tone. "He said he's from Vallon."

That could be bad news and Mousqueton rushed to the gate while munching the bread. Since his master and his mistress left the paternal house the news from the family where few and sporadic. A young man was sitting out of the gatekeeper's house and his posture has too relaxed to be a bird of ill omen. He composed his features and smiled with all the politics of the times.

"Is there anything wanted, my friend?"

"Are you M. Mousqueton?" The man asked with an insolent tone.

"If you have doubts, you can go back to where you came from," Mousqueton replied. He was not mincing words with those rubes.

His words must convince the man because he stood up and watched him more closely.

"My apologies, M. Edmé said you had no patience," he explained himself, a hand in his hip. "He said you used to receive correspondence at the master's house."

"That's correct," Mousqueton admitted, but that was almost a year ago. Grimaud and Planchet had been warned of his change of address. "I used to."

"The wax used to seal your letters, which color it was?"

Mousqueton noted that it was a test, maybe a stray letter was found? He had all the letters Planchet sent him, they checked the last time Mousqueton was in Paris, but with his mute friend he could never be sure.

"Cobalt blue," was his response. That was the color Grimaud's master always used and his servant was quite liberal with it.

"Oh, then this is your correspondence," the man said offering him an envelope with a seal stamped in cobalt blue wax. "M. Edmé was worried it wasn't yours."

Odd, Grimaud would never paid the tax for the envelope or dare to use his master's signet ring, he usually fold his missive's corners and smear sealing wax to hold it. Mousqueton took it and turned it over, the mystery was easily solved: It wasn't for him; this letter was sent to his master as those Gothic black characters stated. That bunch of boors could have realized the situation if they bothered to learn how to read!

"Come to the house," Mousqueton invited, it was better to have this fool near if his master would wish to reply this letter, and he most certainly will. "We will serve you a bite for your troubles."

With that peasant at his tow, Mousqueton returned to the kitchen and noticed the desserts were already served; maybe this was a good time to present the correspondence. Once he left the messenger at the cares of the kitchen staff, Mousqueton took a plate, placed M. Athos' letter in it —as the mistress wanted—, and went to the dining room. His master was busy finishing off an almond and honey cake that his wife liked so much to bake for him.

"Master, the correspondence," Mousqueton announced and presented the plate; he was enjoying beforehand his master’s pleasure at getting news from one of his friends.

A man starving wouldn't pounce to a piece of bread as readily as my master did when he saw the arms that adorned the missive. His hand tore open the envelope and he extracted the couple of sheets covered with neat calligraphy. The cake was promptly forgotten, and Mousqueton couldn't be happier.

"Mousqueton," his mistress called him out. She was in her place, biting a peach and her countenance didn't bode well. "A word."

"Yes, madame?"

"How much is the amount for the delivery?"

The servant stared her in disbelief. Sometimes it was painfully obvious that Madame du Vallon never rubbed shoulders with people of quality. M. Athos would never send a letter without the proper freight paid in advance. He was too noble to suppose any person worth of his time and though was unable to paid a triviality like the carriage; also, he would never burden a friend with a payment he could do with ease.

"The messenger didn't say a word about it, _madame_."

"Probably there is none," M. Porthos had the envelope in one hand and the letter in the other. One could tell if it wasn't because he had to contain himself, he would hold them to his heart. "Athos never gave much thought to those trifles, my angel."

"I suppose a man with a child couldn't spare enough attention to mind his manners."

A _child_? Mousqueton was dumbstruck for a moment. How come that woman came to that astounding conclusion?

"My dear angel, you are the light of my life, but never dare to talk bad about my friends!" M. Porthos stood up and wagged the pieces of paper at her with an angry motion. "Athos never meant any harm! Since he was the one who wanted to send his news it was just polite on his end."

Any other time, Mousqueton could try to appease that lover's fight that was about to be unleashed in its full force. Those are usually loud but short lived, and a nuisance for all the service. This time he was not so inclined, in his master hand was the evidence of his mistress' sharp eyes. A simple smear of charcoal in the back of the pages: four fingers and part of a palm. It didn't belong to a man or to a woman, they are far too small. The envelope made impossible that someone from the country left them there: That little hand came from Bragelonne.

Mousqueton had to fight against the silly laughter that bubbled inside him. M. Athos with a child! That idea was beyond belief!

"Not in front of the service, my dear _ox_ ," madame du Vallon said in a controlled whisper, trying to save her ammunition for the real charge.

The weight of his master's eyes was immediately felt over Mousqueton's head, and he realized that he was in the most inconvenient position: with his hands over his mouth to hold down the laughter. That was hardly a dignified stance.

"Mousqueton, go and laugh elsewhere!" M. Porthos commanded, his hand waved the letter and the smear was apparent again.

Before he couldn't hold himself back, Mousqueton made a reverence and left the room. Once the doors where closed behind him, the good Norman ran to his attic apartment, he had to write Grimaud immediately because that damned mute was the only one who could uncover the true.

...

Mousqueton put that missive to the post by means of that simpleton who brought M. Athos letter, and then, he went on with his day, trying to be unobtrusive. If the masters had a serious fight the best bet was to be beneath notice. He encouraged the rest of the service to be irreproachable to please the mistress and save the master some troubles.

The master dinned alone that night, for madame du Vallon alleged a splitting headache. Mousqueton couldn't be fooled; she was punishing good M. Porthos for having friends that didn't fit her frame of mind. Appetite never failed to M. Porthos  and since it was just the master at the table, Mousqueton burdened himself with the service. It was almost like the old days, but the table was better stocked.

"Do you need anything else, master?" Mousqueton asked, presenting the bottle of Spanish wine that they opened that night.

"No, thank you," M. Porthos said with a sigh, it was obvious that he missed his wife's presence because he returned to his old habits and his doublet was completely open. "I had news from Athos today. I'm sure you noticed it."

"Yes, master. Wasn't it a nice surprise?"

A nod, and then his master took the whole bottle.

"He said he had been otherwise engaged with his new estate. Bragelonne it's called, another countship."

"Oh... Does he have a new house?" He tried his best to act the fool; Grimaud had been slipping bits of information about that great project called Bragelonne for years.

"It's not in Athos' nature of to share his life so willingly, _morbleu!_ His affairs should be fairly tangled for him to remember me."

"I don't think so. M. Athos was always fond and deferential to you, master."

"He was a real friend, wasn't he?" M. Porthos asked, with his feet on the table, one of those habits of unruly soldier that his wife hated with all her soul. He raised the bottle and drank from the neck. "He was a little keen on the bottle, that didn't prevent him from being a real gentleman, though. I miss him, and d'Artagnan, and Aramis. My little wild cat hates my cronies' guts and it had been years since I saw them..."

"No, master, the mistress had her feathers ruffled because M. Athos paid the fee."

M. Porthos said his servant with a skeptical look. "Do you think so?"

"Most likely; she takes pride in paying for everything, just like M. Athos does."

"I'll make Athos stop paying for his letters."

"And you'll offend M. Athos..."

" _Peste!_ That will be a trouble!"

With the most candor he could muster, Mousqueton said: "I could take the fee..."

The idea visibly bloomed in M. Porthos' mind and Mousqueton congratulated himself as his master's smile grew bigger. That would make Grimaud more at ease, because he wouldn't be stealing, he would be taking the money with the blessings of his master.

"Yes, you could take the fee and use it as you find suitable."

"But, master," Mousqueton faked his embarrassment beautifully, "that would be stealing from your wife!"

"No, you will be doing me a service: Peace at home is priceless!" M. Porthos rose from his chair with a big smile; his hand placed the bottle on the table: "I'll inform my little flower that my friend will never send another paid letter!"

"That will make her really happy, master!" Mousqueton assured him with a nod, but an idea came to his mind and stopped him before he left the room. "Master?"

"What is it?"

"Could the mistress be right?"

"What do you mean?"

"Could M. Athos have a child in his home?"

" _Fie_! Athos couldn't bear to be next to a woman long enough to save his own life, let alone make her a baby!”

His hearty roar of laugh was loud enough to make the candlesticks dance on the table. His laugh was contagious and Mousqueton let himself being carried away in the shared elation until one of the maid came to see if they were drunk. The look on the poor girl was enough to ensure the fit regain its strength and the renewed howls continued until they had to stop because their sides were weak and their breath was short.

"You know something, don't you?" M. Porthos asked once the burst of mirth passed.

For a moment, Mousqueton was stunned at that disarming and blunt question. He knew he had several irons in the fire, there was no way to prove that hand print belonged to M. Athos' child. Bragelonne could have a maid with a child, or maybe the post master had a little boy to help him in his labor. It was certain that Grimaud complained about some things that made him suspect his mistress was right, but he couldn't betray his friend's trust.

"Master, I would never let the secrets of your house transpire beyond its walls," Mousqueton said with deliberate slowness. "Could Grimaud do less for M. Athos?"

M. Porthos watched him, an eyebrow raised, and a smile curving the side of his mouth.

"Athos was right. The service always knows more than they admit," M. Porthos said slapping his big hand on Mousqueton's back. "Keep your secrets, you rascal, because I have a pending reconciliation to handle and that's more interesting and important than your conversation."

"Good night, master," Mousqueton said with a smile, seeing how he climbed the stairs to his chamber.

While Mousqueton cleared the table, he allowed his mind dwelt in the possibilities. Oh, this idea could keep his mind busy for days and that only could do him good because his letter would be in Bragelonne in five days and Grimaud was not used to reply his correspondence in a hurry.

It would be hard to wait for this little piece of gossip!

 


End file.
